Regret Not a Moment (48 page)

“John.” Her cultured voice washed over him, deeper now than in her youth. “How kind of you to come.”

An electric shock ran through him as he touched her black-gloved hand, enfolding it in his two hands. He was suddenly taken back to the day he had first seen her, in the Magraths’ ballroom. It seemed as though the years were fading away, like a dream, and he was meeting her for the first time. He remembered his fascination. She was still fascinating. More fascinating now, with that regal bearing that had grown more pronounced with maturity. He wondered whether she was feeling the same emotions.

Then he noticed the manner in which the white-haired man hurried up beside her and took her elbow. His manner was solicitous, and very proprietary. John released Devon’s hand. He saw that the man was studying him, waiting for him to speak.

“I thought so highly of Willy,” said John. “I’m so sorry.”

Devon bowed her head for a moment, then raised tear-filled eyes to his. “I feel lost without him. You know, we became the best of friends.”

John stared into the distance, remembering. “You were at each other’s throats in the beginning. I never thought you’d work out your differences.”

Devon’s voice drew John’s eyes back to hers. “Our differences seem so insignificant now, after all our years together. I suppose circumstances forced us to stay together in the beginning. Afterward, I’m sure neither one of us could have imagined a parting of the ways.” Devon looked down as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

Seeing her distress, Devon’s white-haired companion began gently to urge her forward. The brick path leading from the grave site was only wide enough for two people, so John dropped behind. The party moved toward the gravel-covered drive, where black limousines were waiting to take them the short distance to the main house.

Devon turned to look over her shoulder and saw Francesca walking with John, his arm draped comfortably over her shoulder. Puzzled, Devon frowned at the apparent familiarity. Did they know each other?

“Francesca,” she called softly, stopping to wait for her daughter, “come along, dear.”

Francesca came to her mother’s side, but then she turned to John and asked, “Can you stay awhile? Everyone else will be coming back to the house.”

John looked questioningly at Devon, who, though confused by the apparent relationship, would never publicly countermand an invitation issued by a member of her family. “You are certainly welcome,” Devon said, a little stiffly. She found John’s presence disturbing and was annoyed at herself for feeling that way.

“Thank you. I’d like that,” he replied with a smile at Francesca.

Devon looked from one to the other, then turned and got into the long black car in which Laurel was already seated. Francesca and Mason followed her in.

Devon held her tongue during the ride to the house, not wishing to question her daughter about John in front of Mason. Nor did she have a chance to speak to her alone during the afternoon, since the room was crowded with those who had attended the funeral. But despite the crowd, Devon was always aware of John’s presence. Her eyes were drawn unwillingly to him. She found herself furtively studying him. He had aged well. Though he was almost sixty years old, his shoulders were still broad, and he did not have the middle-aged paunch that characterized most men of her acquaintance. His appearance was distinguished—yet still disturbingly animal, as it had been years before.

Later that evening, when finally the house was empty except for the family and Mason, Devon knocked on her daughters door. She found Francesca reading in bed; a book about horses, of course. The pure white walls of the girl’s room were covered in drawings and photographs of horses, and her cherry bookshelf lined with horse figurines. Devon suddenly remembered that her daughter’s birthday was only days away. The funeral arrangements had made her lose track of time.

“How are you feeling this evening, sweetheart?” Devon asked, perching on the edge of the blue-and-white-gingham-covered bed. The material had been Francesca’s choice. She had wanted something that reminded her of the dungarees she always wore when she went horseback riding.

“Okay, I guess,” Francesca said, putting her book facedown on her lap.

Devon took the child’s hand in hers. “I think were both going to miss Willy a lot.”

Francesca nodded and squeezed her mother’s hand.

“Francesca, I’d like to ask you about something that happened today.”

Francesca tilted her head, signaling for Devon to continue.

“Have you met Mr. Alexander before?”

Francesca studied Devon. She wasn’t certain what her answer should be. She had intended to tell her mother after Christmas of her meeting with John, since to tell her before that would have revealed that she had purchased Devon’s gift at Tiffany. But Christmas had come and gone almost unnoticed in the days between Willy’s death and his funeral. In the family’s haste to leave New York, all the gifts had been left there. And it would have been unseemly, they decided, to decorate Willowbrook for Christmas and celebrate the holiday as usual.

“The truth,” Devon insisted.

“I was going to tell you…” Francesca’s voice faltered as she searched for an explanation.

“Where and when did you meet him?”

“At a store when I was shopping for your Christmas gift,” Francesca blurted out. “He was nice to me even though the lady with him called me a silly child. He made her go home and then we had lunch at the Palm Court.”

Devon raised her eyebrows, clearly signaling an infraction to Francesca.

“Oh, Mother,” Francesca sighed in exasperation. “I knew he wasn’t a kidnapper or something else awful. He seemed so… so… well,
kind,
if you know what I mean. But at the same time, very respectable. No different from anyone else we know.”

Devon rose from the soft mattress and began to pace quietly. It was obvious to Francesca that Devon was preparing to lecture her. Francesca burrowed into her pillows and waited for the admonition, philosophically resigned.

As predicted, Devon began, “Under no circumstances—
no circumstances
—are you ever to go anywhere with a stranger,” she said sternly. She turned to glare at her daughter from her standing position. “You are only thirteen years old—”

“Fourteen,” Francesca interjected, “this week.”

“Fourteen then. You are too young to make judgments about whether people mean to harm you. Believe me, some people who appear to be very nice can do tremendous harm to young girls like you.”

“I was just—”

“Don’t interrupt!” Devon commanded. “I have very few rules in this household, but those that I do have
will
be observed.”

“Are you going to punish me?”

“Yes. You are not to go horseback riding for one week.”

“But Mom!” moaned Francesca. “That’s the best part of being here.”

“I am perfectly aware of that,” Devon said, hands on her hips, “which is why I have chosen it as your punishment. And don’t assume that air of tragedy. You deserve this for doing something you knew was strictly prohibited.”

“All right,” Francesca said, eyes downcast. She knew the punishment was fair, albeit unwelcome.

That matter resolved, Devon let go of her anger and resumed her seat on the edge of Francesca’s bed. “On to more pleasant subjects,” she announced calmly. “For your birthday, I would suggest just a quiet family dinner this year, in view of Willy—”

Francesca interrupted, “Oh, that’s all I want. I couldn’t have a party so soon—” She cut herself off in midsentence, not wanting to utter the reference to Willy’s death. “But, Mother, there is one thing I would like for my birthday.”

Devon gave her daughter a half smile, expecting a request pertaining to horses. “What is it, darling?”

“Could… could Mr. Alexander be invited to my birthday dinner?”

The question caught Devon unawares and she flushed hotly, without quite knowing why. Confused, she looked around the room, avoiding Francesca’s eyes. “Well, I… I…” Devon hesitated, trying to think of a reason to avoid such a simple request. “He’s not really a close friend, and he’s certainly not a member of the family,” Devon offered.

“I know.” Francesca sighed.

Her daughter’s tone of wistfulness captured Devon’s full attention. “Why? Why should someone you only met twice make such an impression on you.”

Francesca looked down at her hands picking at the sheet. “I don’t know exactly.”

Devon considered a moment. The child had just lost one of the most important male figures in her life. There really was no one else for her, other than Mason, who was not as constant or long-standing a presence as Willy. Why should she deny such a simple request of her daughter’s? And on her birthday.

“You know, Francesca,” Devon said gently, “you mustn’t invest too much emotion in your friendship with Mr. Alexander.”

“Why not?” Francesca asked.

Why not, indeed? Devon asked herself. What could she tell the child? That the man did not wish to be burdened by a family, liked his freedom too much to be encumbered by a relationship with a young girl? His act of friendship toward Francesca would make Devon look as though she were dreaming up feeble excuses. There was no way to impart to a fourteen-year-old the caution she had learned as the thirty-year-old wife of John Alexander.

Reluctantly, she decided to grant Francesca’s request. “All right, Francesca, you may invite Mr. Alexander. But please make clear to him that the invitation comes from you, not me.”

“Oh!” Francesca cried happily, clapping her hands. “I’ll do whatever you want. Thank you!”

“And, one more thing…”

“Yes, Mom?”

Looking at Francesca’s happy face, she decided to temper her words of warning. She did not want to spoil her child’s joy, but at the same time, she wanted to protect her from the hurt she herself had once known. “Well, just remember that Mr. Alexander is a very busy man. And if he should ever disappoint you… I mean, by not being available, or not paying you the attention you’d like, try to understand… it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you.”

“THAT’S the last straw, Pritchard,” Jeremiah said in a quietly menacing tone. “I’ve given you every chance to shuck that attitude of yours.”

“Well ain’t you high and mighty,” the little man said, his nose almost touching Jeremiah’s, his veins standing out above his open collar. “Willy’s only been dead six months and you already think you know everythin’ so’s you can boss me.”

Jeremiah, usually slow to lose his temper, was incensed. Still, he did not raise his voice, though he spoke tensely, leaning forward to add emphasis to his words. “I’ve always been your boss, Pritchard. Got nothing to do with Willy. And it’s because of me that you’ve stayed around this long. Now I’m deciding that it’s time for you to be sent packing. I want you gone by noon.”

The two had disagreed over a seemingly minor matter: whether it was time to break in one of Willowbrook’s prize colts. But it had been only the latest of a long series of disagreements. And Jeremiah had finally decided that Willy had been right. Jimmy Pritchard would not listen to reason. He was as wild and unrestrained as the colt under discussion.

Jimmy’s next words proved that Jeremiah’s impression was correct. “You got no power over me. Miss Devon’ll decide if I’m fired or not!” shouted the young man.

“You’re a fool, boy, Miss—”

Jeremiah’s words were interrupted by a resounding blow to his jaw. For a moment, he stood on his feet, stunned and seeing stars. Then he fell backward into the mud of the barnyard. From a dreamlike distance he heard Jimmy Pritchard shout down at him, “Ain’t no nigger gonna call me boy!” That was when Jeremiah felt a gut-wrenching blow in his stomach. Then he lost consciousness.

The breakfast of the ladies of Willowbrook was interrupted by a loud banging on the kitchen door. The vibrations could be heard through the hallway and into the dining room where Laurel, Alice, Francesca, and Devon sat enjoying the morning sun.

“I gotta see Miss Devon!” she heard a man shout to one of the kitchen servants.

Alarmed, Devon hastily arose, throwing down her napkin on the table. “What in the world?” she said to no one in particular as the ladies all looked at one another questioningly.

She heard muffled responses, then the same voice shouted, “No! Right now! Get outta my way!”

Before she could hurry into the kitchen, she heard footsteps stomping down the short hall that acted as a thoroughfare to the dining room. Then Jimmy Pritchard burst through the door.

“I gotta talk to you,” the jockey said, glaring at Devon.

Devon stared icily at the young man. Like Willy, she had recognized him as a troublemaker, and she had often been tempted to fire him. Yet Jeremiah was his direct boss, and Devon was reluctant to interfere. She knew that Jeremiah was having trouble since Willy’s death maintaining his authority as the undisputed boss over some of the white employees. Even some of the blacks seemed to believe he had no place in the number-one position. Devon knew that if she wanted Jeremiah to succeed in his new job, she had to step back and let him take over the operation until he had established himself.

But now Pritchard was intruding on her territory and she intended to put him in his place in no uncertain terms.

On this day, Devon was wearing a crisp navy linen suit in preparation for a visit to her banker in Middleburg. She had decided to borrow money to purchase an adjacent brood farm that had recently been put up for sale. It she was able to swing the deal, she would own the largest Thoroughbred stable in Virginia. The brood farm was highly prestigious, and she was not even certain that the sellers were serious, but her mouth watered at the thought of consolidating the operation with hers. Of course, she could have bought the farm outright with her own money, but she preferred to use the bank’s money for her enterprise—a practice she had adopted for all new ventures soon after taking over Willowbrook.

Pritchard had only rarely seen Devon in such a businesslike outfit. At the stables, she usually wore blue jeans. So the sight of her, authoritative, cool, so obviously above him, made him hesitate for a moment.